


feel the fire and let me have this

by scribespirare



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Abuse, Blood, Cannibalism, Child Abuse, Crossroads demon AU, Don't sell your soul to demons kids, Drugs, Eye Trauma, General warning for Alastor being himself, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mafia AU, Murder, POV Alternating, Period-Typical Homophobia, deal making, eventual hurt/comfort, graphic depictions of rape, human!Angel, though Angel isnt exactly a child anymore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25637197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribespirare/pseuds/scribespirare
Summary: A rush of energy fills Alastor’s body as the deal locks into place, and his grin stretches impossibly wide. “The deal is struck,” he murmurs, grabbing the boy’s other arm to keep him close. “What’s your name, Angel?”The eyes that stare back at him are fierce in that beautiful face, unafraid despite Alastor’s touch. “Anthony.”aka Angel summons a crossroads demon to deal with his problems
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust/OMC (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 74
Kudos: 293





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hellooooooo i had this idea a while back and just couldn't shake it. i need me some good horror hurt/comfort. 
> 
> additionally, the title is based on the song Hell and You by Amigo the Devil and u should check it out cause its a bop and also fits this fic rly well

It’s only been six years since Alastor manifested in Hell, which, for a realm that doesn’t age and has existed for millennia, is but a drop in the bucket. However, Alastor would like to believe he’s used his time wisely. In those brief six years he’s managed to topple not just one but _two_ separate overlords, their territories falling easily under his hand. If that wasn’t enough to earn him infamy, he’s also established his own torture, ehem, _radio_ show. The exact kind of show he wished he’d been able to broadcast when he’d been alive. A chance to share the bloodier work he loves doing, while instilling fear in all of his listeners at the same time.

Unfortunately, rising to overlord and amassing as much power as he has seems to have come with a price Alastor wasn’t expecting. He’d been enjoying a midnight snack when it had happened; a tugging sensation in his gut, a flash of static noise, a feeling of being _called_ and unable to not answer.

He doesn’t realize he’s been _summoned_ until he feels a cool evening breeze on his skin. Hell doesn’t have breezes, barely has anything that could be even considered weather.

Alastor blinks as his body adjusts to being topside again, his stomach settling. How dreadfully unpleasant. He’s standing, so at least the experience didn’t knock him on his ass entirely; what a poor first impression to make that would have been. The sky above him is as black as any void, no moon or stars shining through that inkinesss, and he’s found himself on what looks like the outskirts of a huge city. A little more modern than what he’s used to, buildings rising up around him and imprinted against the sky.

The scent of blood hits him sharply, familiar and bright, and when he glances down, the broken concrete under his feet is drenched in red. A ring of white circles his feet. Salt? Summoned at a crossroad it seems.

The sound of a throat clearing catches his attention and he finally looks up to find his summoner. Their face is shrouded in darkness, but a streetlight behind them catches on blonde hair, making it glow like spun white gold. There’s a faint impression of pale skin and almond eyes, a lithe, graceful body also cast in shadows. Had this been the first thing Alastor had seen when he’d opened his eyes, he may have mistaken the ground under his feet as clouds and the street lamp as something holy.

_Angel._

The figure shifts and light spills over his features, only reinforcing Alastor’s thoughts. He’s beautiful, dark brown eyes set in a heart-shaped face, a spattering of freckles over a button nose. His skin isn’t nearly as pale as Alastor had first assumed, and when he steps towards him Alastor realizes the roots of his blonde hair are black. The only thing ruining his image is the bruising around one of his eyes. That is, until he opens plush lips, says, “You tha demon?” in such a rude tone that everything Alastor had been thinking about him grinds to a dramatic stop. He swears he can hear a record-skip.

Alastor fights to keep his grin in place. He summons his microphone, using it as a cane as he leans towards the boy. And boy he is, can’t be older than twenty. “That I am!” Alastor says cheerfully. “What can I do for you, Angel?” The boy may be rude but the nickname is still apt and Alastor can’t help but use it.

If he cares about being addressed that way, he doesn’t show it. “I need ta make a deal. That’s what you do, ain’t it?”

“It most certainly is,” Alastor says through his teeth. 

“Good.” The boy’s shoulders are a strong, hard line, but he wraps his arms around himself like he needs the support. Or perhaps it's the chill in the air getting to him, biting through a short sleeved button down tucked into high-waisted slacks. Alastor thinks it might be a modern look but he’s not sure, the world of fashion having moved onward after his death.

“I need ya to kill someone for me,” the boy continues. “Need ya to set me free.”

Alastor’s grin curls at the edges. If he plays this deal right he’ll be back home before the sun ever touches the horizon. “And you know the cost of such a deal?”

The boy shrugs one shoulder, gaze skittering away. “My soul ain’t worth much, but sure, it’s yers.”

_For one measly murder?_ Alastor wants to ask, but doesn’t. His already low opinion of the boys sinks even lower.

“When’re ya gonna want it though?” the boys asks. “’Cause one little death don’t seem worth cutting my life short for. If yer gonna have my soul for the rest of eternity or whatever I think it’s only fair that you don’t get to have a hand in my death.”

Perhaps he’s smarter than Alastor gave him credit for. Agreeing to those terms would mean he couldn’t kill the boy outright as soon as the salt circle is released if he wants to fulfill the contract. Unfortunately for him, Alastor is a master deal maker and no wet-nosed brat is going to slip anything past him.

“Perfectly reasonable, Angel,” Alastor purrs. “How’s this; I free you in exchange for your soul, on the condition that you don’t die before you’re supposed to.” Wonderfully vague, the way Alastor prefers all of his deals. There’s no such thing as when someone’s _supposed_ to die; death is a fickle mistress and she comes for fragile humans whenever she happens to feel like. And in this human’s case, she’ll be swooping in the moment Alastor calls on her. He extends a hand as far as he can within the circle, offering it to shake and seal the deal. “What do you say?”

The boy eyes him warily, arms still wrapped around himself. He doesn’t approach. “Ya really gonna kill this dude for me?” he asks.

“I don’t go back on my promises, Angel.”

Soft cheeks puff up with air before the boy lets out a slow breath, clearly weighing his options here. Alastor already knows they’re going to weigh in his favor. If they weren’t he wouldn’t have been summoned at all.

“It’s just…” the boy starts, stops, then goes on again, “well, he ain’t a good guy. I think if I killed him myself it wouldn’t even count as a sin, ya know? But I can’t, not on my own. Don’t matter how hard I struggle or fight, he’s stronger than me, and I can’t sneak any weapons or drugs in when I go ta see him.”

Alastor’s eyes narrow, grin lessening a fraction. He’s not sure he likes the implications here. “I’m going to guess this man is the reason for your black eye?”

The boy flinches, then reaches up to touch the swollen flesh with one hand. His face screws up into something ugly, something dark and vengeful, full of hatred. So at odds with his angelic appearance that it briefly takes Alastor’s non-existent breath away.

_No,_ his mind says. _Not at odds._ In Alastor’s experience, angels are wrathful, full of divine vengeance. If anything the boy’s snarl only enhances his angelicness. 

“Yeah, that was him,” the boy spits. “You should see my thighs an’ ass. Real fond of leaving ‘is mark behind. Puts his cigarettes out on me, uses his belt, smacks me around real good, the fucker.” His voice rises in pitch as he’s talking, body uncurling as he starts to gesture almost violently with his hands. When he moves his left hand it leaves behind a smear of blood across where he’d been holding his right arm, cherry red under the streetlamp. He must have cut his palm to summon Alastor. “Talks all this talk ‘bout how he paid good money for me and that I’m so beautiful ‘n shit, but then turns around and breaks my nose while I’m blowin’ him, came all over my bloody face and fuckin’ laughed about it! Like, who the fuck does that!? _And then,_ as if that shit ain’t bad enough, lately he’s been tellin’ me mid-fuck he’s gonna murder me and keep the body. Not if I get to ‘im first though, the sick fuck.”

The boy is even more beautiful, filled with aggression and baring his teeth like a cornered animal. At least in Alastor’s opinion. He’s so worked up that he strides forward and takes Alastor’s hand almost violently in his own, sealing their contract without a second thought. “Kill ‘im before he kills me,” he growls.

A rush of energy fills Alastor’s body as the deal locks into place, and his grin stretches impossibly wide. Now that he’s got hold of the boy he doesn’t hesitate to tug him into the salt circle with him, unwilling to let him go now. Everything just got _so_ much more interesting. The boy’s feet drag through the salt line in the process, breaking the circle entirely, much to Alastor’s pleasure.

“The deal is struck,” he murmurs, grabbing the boy’s other arm to keep him close. “What’s your name, Angel?”

The eyes that stare back at him are fierce in that beautiful face, unafraid despite Alastor’s touch. “Anthony.”

“And where would you like my mark, Anthony? Consider it my way of signing on the dotted line.” He grabs Anthony’s bloody hand and pulls it up to his mouth, fully enjoying the way the boy’s eyes widen as Alastor laps at the wound. The taste of blood bursts sharp and hot on his tongue and he has to fight to keep his eyes from fluttering. It’s been so long since he’s tasted human blood. Sure, eating demons can certainly be just as fulfilling, but they don’t have the same flavor, the same richness.

“I can place it here,” Alastor says, giving the palm another lick and then allowing it when Anthony tugs it away. Instead he grabs the boy’s face, drags a rough thumb over his swollen left eye. “I could even place it here. It will be dark, and prominent, and I promise it’s going to hurt a lot. But nobody will be able to look at you and not know what you’ve done.”

Anthony’s breath has started to pick up, though Alastor isn’t sure if it’s in fear or excitement. Finally, after a long moment, he murmurs. “My eye. Put it there.”

Alastor licks the last remnant of blood off his teeth, purrs, “Of course, darling.” Then digs his thumb into Anthony’s eye until it gives with a sickening _pop._

Anthony’s scream is just as beautiful as his face. He passes out part of the way through, and Alastor has to support him with an arm around his waist. When it’s all finished and Alastor’s mark is upon the boy, he takes a moment to lick the blood and aqueous fluid off his own hand. He chases it to the source after that, holding an unconscious Anthony’s face in his hands as he licks from chin to cheekbone, savoring the metallic flavor.

Perhaps his responsibilities in Hell can wait a while.

oOo

Anthony wakes feeling like someone drove a goddamn railroad spike through his skull. He groans, wishing immediately that he hadn’t awoken at all, and rolls over to bury his face into his pillow.

He pauses. The events of last night run through his mind’s eye, almost too fast to follow. He’s not sure where he learned about crossroad demons or how to summon them; he’s definitely never believed those old wives tales. But he’d hit his wit’s end yesterday, alone and frustrated and in fuckin’ pain…

It’s not like crossroads are hard to find in New York, there’s one on every goddamn block. Literally. But he’d gone out towards the bay, found the most derelict area of warehouses along the docks that he could. The kind of place where deals are supposed to happen; dark and gritty, hidden from the rest of the city by the corpses of buildings no longer in official use.

He’d started with his circle of salt. _To trap the demon_ or so he vaguely remembers being told. _Hold them in place long enough for a deal to be struck._ Then he’d cut his palm open, let his blood drip onto the cracked concrete. There had been a little withered plant pushing up out of that gravel and he’d watched in fascination as his blood had dripped all over it’s single leaf, coating it in bright red.

He hadn’t known any words or fuckin’ Latin or anything he’d need to chant to summon the demon. The tales were all real vague and at the time he’d been pretty sure he was in dangerous territory in the middle of the goddamn night for no real reason. Just standing around cutting his own hand open like an idiot. But he’d muttered something about wanting, _needing_ a deal. About needing freedom.

And lo and behold the ground had rumbled under his feet, deep and threatening, and he’d stumbled back from his stupid salt circle in surprise. Between one blink and the next _he_ had suddenly been there. Red eyes glowing in the dim light, a suit a few seasons out of fashion but sharp nonetheless, and a crack of static through the air like lightning. The air had smelled of ozone and sulphur and Anthony had just. Blinked.

Did that shit really work?

It had. The demon hadn’t told him his name and Anthony hadn’t offered his own until it was asked of him. He’d gotten lost looking into those inhuman eyes, the dark pupils, the sharp teeth in a mouth too wide for the thing’s face. And it had been a _thing_ , no matter how sweetly he talked, the promises he made. It’s breath had stunk of something charred and burnt and the tongue that had dragged across Anthony’s palm was almost painfully hot.

Still, Anthony had made the deal. He’d agreed to it. He’d taken that gloved-hand, each finger tipped in wicked looking claws, and shaken it.

Back in his bedroom he reaches up to touch his own face suddenly, remembering the searing pain as one of those claws had brushed against his black eye and then _pressed._ He remembers screaming. He remembers blood and a vicious, pleased smile.

But his eye is fine. It doesn’t hurt, and he can’t feel any swelling with his searching fingers.

“What tha fuck,” he says into the open air, not even a question, just a confused statement.

Was it real? Did he actually meet a fuckin’ _demon_ last night? God, his Catholic grandpa is rollin’ in his goddamn grave right now. Technically the rest of Anthony’s family is Catholic too; they even go to church every once in a while. But his grandpa, rest his soul, was the last person to take it seriously.

Personally, Angel is of the opinion that if there’s a God then he’s got some serious explaining to do.

He climbs out of bed, tossing aside comforter and too many pillows to get to the mirror on his desk. The desk’s surface is scattered with various items in disarray; makeup, several knives, a candle, loose change, cologne and perfume alike. But he pushes most of that to the side to pull his mirror close with both hands. The face that greets him is perfectly healthy; no bruising or swelling to be seen. But his left eye…The sclera is completely black. Like liquid ink, no matter what way he moves it, or how he pulls at his eyelids. Everything except the brown of his iris is now black.

“What tha fuck,” he says again, this time a little fainter.

A hand on his shoulder surprises him so much that he yelps and jerks away from it, jamming his hip painfully against his desk in the process. The mess of stuff atop it is jarred, sending several bottles and containers clattering to the floor with a loud noise. But Anthony doesn’t pay any attention to that, too busy staring at the figure in his room.

“I promise you, you didn’t dream last night up, Angel,” the demon says. Anthony continues to stare at him, breath coming a little too fast.

“Tony?” His sister’s voice, followed by an abrasive knock on his bedroom door, breaks the silence between them like a knife between the ribs. “Ya okay in there?”

“M’fine!” Anthony calls back, his eyes never leaving the demon. It doesn’t look away either, all smiles and fluffy hair. In the light of day -afternoon, probably, judging by the light streaming through his curtains- he doesn’t seem quite as intimidating as he had the night before. Especially when Anthony realizes the fluffy things coming out of the top of his head are _ears_ and not just tufts of ridiculous hair. They twitch in time with his sister’s voice.

“’Kay! Keep it tha fuck down though, I just got in!” Molly calls back, pounding on his door one more time just to be annoying. Her footsteps retreat to the bedroom down the hall, leaving them alone.

Anthony lets out a slow breath. Okay, so he summoned a demon. It’s fine. Totally. It ain’t like Anthony himself is a saint or nothin’ so really they should get along just swell, right? God those fuckin’ teeth are unnerving.

“Ya mind not sneakin’ up on a fella like that?” he finally snaps, unpeeling himself from his desk. “Scared me half’ta death.”

“My apologies,” is the demon’s incredibly unapologetic response. 

Anthony just snorts.

“I don’t believe I introduced myself last night,” the demon says next. “Alastor, at your service, darling.” He’s close suddenly, too goddamn close, one of Anthony’s hands in his own as he brings it to his mouth and kisses the back of it. “Pleasure to be working with you.”

“Uh,” Anthony says intelligently. Before he can stop him, Alastor has already turned his hand around and is licking at the closed wound on his palm. His tongue is just as hot as Anthony remembers it to be, burning against sensitive flesh. To boot, his touch makes the wound reopen and begin seeping blood, all lapped up quite eagerly.

Anthony pulls his hand back quickly, using the other to push against Alastor’s chest and put some space between them. “Would ya knock it off? That’s fuckin’ nasty,” he hisses. As soon as there’s enough room, he wriggles away from the desk, unwilling to allow the demon to corner him again.

“Forgive me, Angel,” Alastor says, but his smile doesn’t flag in the slightest. “It’s been so long since I’ve had human blood, I’m afraid it’s made me forget even more of my manners than I previously thought.”

His palm is bright red and still feels too warm, slick with saliva and a few drops of blood the demon hadn’t gotten to. Anthony makes a face and wipes it on his pants. “Yeah, well, jus’ don’t do it again, okay?” Then he realizes he’s still wearing the same clothes he was in last night. “How’d we even get here? Pretty sure I passed ta fuck out on you when you-” he makes a vague gesture towards his left eye, grimacing again.

“Marked you,” Alastor supplies helpfully. “And I’m a demon, my love. I have my ways. Speaking of, why don’t you tell me who you want me to kill so we can get this show on the road! I’ll have him six feet under before dinner.” 

Anthony huffs, collapsing back onto his bed in a comfortable sprawl. The idea of seeing Ricky dead is an enticing, exciting one, but… “About that,” he says, eyeing the demon warily, “I got a plan, but it’ll be a coupla days till we can set it in motion. Guess I didn’t think ta call ya a little closer to day of.”

Alastor’s perpetual smile begins to flag and his eyes narrow. “A plan? The only plan you should have is allowing me to fulfill my end of the contract.”

Anthony shakes his head. “No, look, I want in. I wanna help you kill Ricky. But in order to do that we gotta wait a coupla days until my next appointment with him.” Again he feels that thrill go through him at the thought of Ricky finally kickin’ the bucket. It would serve that sadistic fuck right, and Anthony can’t wait to see the look of surprise in those stupid green eyes of his when Angel buries a knife in his chest. Or puts a few rounds in him. Poisons his drink. Finds a good, sturdy string to garrote him with. Anthony ain’t picky.

He hadn’t really noticed how much the demon moves, talking with his hands, swaying from side to side, weird animal ears flicking back and forth, until it all stops. His head cocks to the side with an audible _crack_ that makes Anthony’s hair stand on end. He suddenly feels like he’s being looked down upon by a predator.

“Darling,” Alastor drawls, the word slow and drawn out threateningly. “I don’t think you’re understanding me. I refuse to spend more time up here than strictly necessary, and the necessary amount is just long enough for me to get rid of your little problem. You will give me the information I require to get the job done. Have I made myself clear?”

If the demon was hoping to intimidate him, he’s got another thing comin’. Anthony juts his chin out stubbornly, arms crossing over his chest and hip cocking to the side. He’s faced down bigger men and yeah he usually comes out of the situation bloodier and more beat up than he entered it, but that doesn’t stop him from doing it again and again. Maybe that makes him stupid. He doesn’t care. Even if that growl makes all his instincts scream _run_.

“Sure, but that don’t mean I’m gonna do what ya tell me to. I told you, _I want in_. If I don’t get to watch the light drain from his eyes, if I don’t get to hear him beg for his goddamn life, then there ain’t no point in this contract,” he insists.

Something flashes in the demon’s eyes, something dark and hungry. “You are either very brave or very foolish to stand up to me, human. I cannot decide which.”

“You’re not allowed to hurt me,” Anthony points out. “It’s in the contract.”

Just like before, Alastor is across the room one moment and then far too close for comfort the next. He grabs Anthony’s face in one sharp-clawed hand, his grip tight enough to hurt. His eyes are glowing in his face, teeth clenched tight, and when he speaks his mouth doesn’t even move. “Our contract says nothing about _hurt_ , Angel. In fact, it says nothing about killing either. You were too stupid to notice the wording I used, but let me lay it out plainly for you. I have all the power here. You have none. I could kill you and the contract would still be fulfilled. Give. Me. The information.”

Anthony swallows hard but doesn’t allow himself to break. No matter how fast his heart is racing or how he can feel those claws piercing at his skin, even through Alastor’s gloves. “No,” he hisses, trying to pull back from that grasp. The demon holds him firm though and Anthony gasps when those fingers squeeze even tighter in warning, making his jaw creak under the pressure. “I don’t care if ya kill me! There’s no point in killing him if I don’t get to be there! He’s hurt me and that means I should be the one ripping his nasty fuckin’ heart from his chest. Not you.”

Those red, red eyes consider him carefully. There’s zero emotion there, but Anthony gets the feeling he’s being sized up the same way a farmer might look at his livestock and imagine them being cut into steaks. “You’re quite angelic, you know that?” Alastor finally says, and his voice is back to normal, grey lips forming around the words. He releases Anthony with a chuckle and the human stumbles backwards away from him.

Anthony rubs at his jaw and frowns at him, confused. “No I ain’t.”

That earns him another laugh. “Oh, darling, but you are. Angels are vengeful, beautiful creatures; pride and violence kept on a short leash. Just like you, their wrath is for sinners and criminals, for those who have harmed and in the process damned their own souls.” Suddenly all the times Alastor had called him Angel are starting to make sense. “Luckily for you, I’ve decided I like your angelic nature. I think I’ll stay and help you instead of eviscerating you on the spot.”

Anthony blinks at him, thrown. He can’t believe that actually worked; he’d been fairly certain he was about to die. “Uh, thanks?”

Alastor’s smile just grows wider. “Oh, don’t thank me yet, Angel. We’ve yet to even begin.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what up back at it again. these particular scenes were not supposed to be nearly this long but uhhhh got lost in the intimacy of it all lmao

Angel’s plan is simple yet efficient. Ricky, the man he wants dead, is the boss of a rival gang, and as such he’s almost never alone. Always well guarded. _Except_ when he’s ‘hired’ Anthony.

Ricky has a standing agreement with Anthony’s father and pays a hefty sum to be able to use the boy once a week, occasionally more. Apparently Anthony used to service other men as well, also from rival gangs, but Ricky is so rough with him that after their sessions Angel’s considered ‘used goods’ and ‘not fit to service’. Ricky is his sole customer now because of that.

Angel says he would have killed Ricky ages ago if he’d been able to. But he’s checked for weapons and drugs by some of Ricky’s goons whenever they meet up, and once they’re alone Ricky never leaves him any openings.

The plan is for Alastor to come along to their next appointment to help even the playing field.

“Yer a demon, I’m sure you can get in without bein’ noticed,” Angel says, waving a flippant hand in Alastor’s direction. “Jus’ work whatever weird Hell magic you got.”

Alastor chooses not to comment on ‘Hell magic’, whatever that even means. “Easy as pie, darling!” he says instead, eyeing Anthony’s form across the room. He’d changed out of yesterday’s clothing, completely unashamed in front of Alastor, and put on a soft looking set of pajamas. They’re bright pink and he didn’t button the top closed so that its edges slide along the warm skin of his stomach and chest. He’s an attractive young man. Unfortunately, he’s bitten off more than he can chew by insisting on this plan of his. “I’m afraid the crux of the issue here won’t be taking care of your little problem though. It’s how you’re going to _entertain_ me for the next three days.”

Anthony pulls his bare feet up onto the mattress so he can sit cross-legged. “I’ve got some magazines’n shit,” he offers with a one-shouldered shrug. It makes Alastor’s smile crack wider across his face.

“I’m afraid that’s not going to cut it, doll.”

“It was worth a shot,” the human mutters. “Okay, whaddya wanna do? What do demons do for fun?”

Oh, now that’s just too easy, and Alastor can’t help but laugh. Several tinny radio voices laugh with him. “I kill and torture, of course! Honestly, what did you think I would say? Crochet? I’m a _demon_ , Angel, and I do what demons do best.”

Anthony looks less than impressed with him. At some point he’d grabbed a switch blade off his bedside table and he flicks it open now to run the tip underneath his nails, cleaning them. “Ya ain’t got _any_ hobbies?” he presses. “Reading, sex, dancing, fuckin’ _water polo_ , I dunno.”

Alastor actually finds himself hesitating despite himself. After a moment he admits, almost tentatively, “I suppose I haven’t gone dancing since before I died.”

The knife pauses and Anthony looks up at him again, face creased in confusion. “Wait, you died?”

“Of course. How do you think demons are made?”

“I dunno,” the boy says honestly, going back to his nails. If Alastor looks closely he can see the remnants of paint on them, as bright pink as his clothing. “Thought they were fallen angels’n shit.”

Alastors hums, twirling his microphone stand idly. “Some of them, I suppose. I’ve never looked too closely into the religious aspects. Most demons are poor, lost sinners thrown into the fiery pits of Hell to suffer for eternity. And some, like me, cannot be considered mere _sinners_. My moral transgressions were so great that I manifested in Hell powerful enough, and most certainly _willing_ , to topple existing regimes.”

Angel folds up his knife and tosses it down on the bed. His brown eyes, one floating in a sea of black, regard the demon curiously. “Huh. So tha worse ya are in life, the more powerful ya are when ya die? Seems counter-intuitive but okay.”

Alastor shrugs both shoulders delicately. “Who am I to question a system that I benefit from?”

That pulls a snort out of Anthony, and one corner of his mouth curls up. “What’d ya even do to get so powerful? Maybe I should take notes if I’mma be your lackey after I die.”

Alastor clicks his tongue loudly and wags a finger at the boy. “Ah, where would I be if I gave away all of my secrets? No, I’m afraid you’ll have to get by on your own sins.”

“Boo! Maybe I wanna be a powerful king of Hell too,” Anthony proclaims. With a huff he flops back against his mattress. “Anyways, back to what ya were sayin’ before, I’ll take ya dancin’ tonight if ya want. But only if I get to sleep some more.”

Alastor brightens immediately. Their contract means he’s bound to Anthony, both physically and spiritually, but that doesn’t mean he can’t wander on off on his own, at least for a little while.

“Of course,” he says demurely and Anthony’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

“Don’t go gettin’ into nothin’ while I’m out though. No murderin’.”

Alastor places a hand over his heart and feigns shock over such horrible accusations. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Angel! I’ll be as pious as a saint.”

Anthony snorts in disbelief but also wraps his comforter around himself so he must not care that much what the demon does. “Yeah right. If ya get into trouble jus’ don’t go incriminatin’ me, got it?” Without waiting for an answer he rolls over, stuffing a pillow under his head to get comfortable. Alastor takes the dismissal with grace.

First things first, he melts into the shadows under Anthony’s bed and goes to check the apartment out. There hadn’t been much activity when he’d brought the boy home last night, and Alastor had needed to rest after sealing their bond anyways. But he’s feeling energized now and he can pick up voices and movement from at least three humans.

The girl in the room down the hall is the spitting image of Anthony. Molly he thinks he remembers she’s called. Like Anthony, she’s sleeping in the middle of the day, sprawled across her mattress with little grace. Her dark hair forms a curly halo around her heart-shaped face, and her makeup is smeared across her eyes and mouth. The room is a mess of clothing, beauty products, and weapons. Alastor can take a few guesses about what she’d spent her night doing, especially when he spots a few scattered pills on her dresser.

Alastor finds the rest of Anthony’s family in the kitchen. A woman is standing at the sink doing dishes in the slowest manner Alastor has ever seen; her expression is vacant and she isn’t responding in the slightest to the conversation happening at the table behind her.

The two men are near spitting images of each other with just enough resemblance to Anthony that Alastor knows for sure they’re family. They seem to be discussing politics of some kind, the elder with vigor and vehemence and the younger nodding along. Anthony’s father, because he could be little else, is a huge man with an imposing figure, a starched, well made suit, and rings on most of his fingers that likely break skin when a punch is thrown. He’s got a cigarette clamped between his teeth and he carelessly flicks ash from it onto the kitchen floor.

The woman, Anthony’s mother, doesn’t notice.

“We need a bribe a some kind,” the father is saying, “get the pigs off our backs long enough to get business rollin’ again.” He huffs, leaning back in his chair and crossing huge arms over a broad chest. “Maybe I can send Tony to the mayor, get ‘im ta work that poof magic’a his. Word on the street is that the mayor’s more than a little bent.”

The younger man, a brother if Alastor had to guess, snorts. “Tony’s goin’ to see Ricky in a few days. Unless tha mayor’s inta ground beef ya better send ‘im tonight or tomorrow.”

The cigarette butt gets flicked to the floor and the older man pushes away from the table to stand. “Maybe I will. Might as well get some more use outta the little fairy ‘fore Ricky does ‘im in. C’mon, the boys are shakin’ down the shops on Elm street today, let’s go make sure their maths right.”

They leave behind dirty dishes on the table from lunch and say nothing to Anthony’s mother as they go. A quick peek through the window shows a Cadillac and several armed men waiting for them down on the street below.

Alastor’s never personally been involved with organized crime of this type, but he recognizes a mafia family when he sees one. Whoever the father is in the organization, he holds power, and he doesn’t wield it well. His children and wife are proud testaments to that. The woman is obviously drugged, either for compliance or by her own hand to mute her misery, one child is a sycophant, one is possibly rebelling through partying and drugs, and the third…well, he’s out summoning crossroads demons to deal with being whored out and abused.

Alastor steps out of the shadows in the kitchen and very calmly begins to gather the dishes from the table. He may be a serial killer and a cannibal but he’s not an _animal_. Antlers notwithstanding. He puts the dishes in the sink, wipes down the table, and then finds a broom and dustpan to sweep up. He’s just about to leave when the woman turns towards him.

Anthony and Molly definitely took after her more than their father. She’s tall and willowy to her husband’s hulking physique, and her dark curly hair is pulled from her face in a messy bun. She has the same heart-shaped face and sprinkle of freckles across her nose as her children, and if her brown eyes weren’t so glassy and dull they’d probably be beautiful. She blinks slowly at him and Alastor freezes, unsure what to do.

But she doesn’t panic at seeing a demon in her kitchen. Not that Alastor fits any traditional demonic stereotypes, but at the very least he’s very obviously inhuman. Maybe she’s simply too drugged to be capable of fear, or maybe she thinks she’s hallucinating. Either way she nods at him and murmurs a thank you that he assumes is for cleaning up.

“You’re very welcome,” he says sincerely. She goes back to her dishes and Alastor slips soundlessly out of the apartment.

He steps out of the shadows in an alley on the street below. The city is loud and colorful beyond the brown brick of the complex, much more urban than anything Alastor is used to. New Orleans in the 1920s can’t compare to what he’s assuming, based on the newspaper clutched in the hand of a passing man, is Brooklyn. Automobiles pass on the street and men and women alike stream along the sidewalks, busy with their normal, boring little lives. How fascinating.

It’s obviously a more rundown and impoverished area of Brooklyn, evidenced by how narrow the street is and the crowded buildings. Not to mention the alley Alastor is in right now, crowded with trash bins and rusted, nearly unusable fire escapes.

A sound of fear draws Alastor’s attention and he turns, surprised to see a homeless man huddled against a concrete stoop. How unfortunate for him that Alastor didn’t notice him before appearing. His eyes are wide with fear, as they should be.

Five minutes later Alastor leaves the alley, almost completely human in appearance. He licks the taste of blood from his lips and straightens his coat. He’d tried to mimic some of the more modern fashion he’s seen so far, but he hadn’t been able to resist from the lurid red button down and midnight black slacks and jacket. His microphone stand is now a cane, something else he hadn’t been able to resist, and he taps it cheerfully along the sidewalk as he walks, tipping the brim of a Panama hat at people he passes. If anyone finds his whistled jazz or the smile stretching his face strange they don’t say anything. But then he’s heard that in big cities like this nobody bothers with anyone else’s business. How delightful.

Alastor gets the feeling he’s going to enjoy this little trip topside, even if it is just for a few days, and he’s suddenly grateful he didn’t murder his Angel when he’d been summonsed. So much to do, so much to see, and he’s barely sure where to start!

oOo

When Anthony wakes next the sun is setting and his headache has thankfully gone away. He rolls over with a yawn and a stretch, observing the shadows slipping through his bedroom.

The demon is nowhere to be seen. But then, he hadn’t been the first time Anthony woke up either.

Unease crawls through him. Being around the demon is certainly unsettling, but not knowing where Alastor is and what he’s doing is somehow slightly worse. It’s not like Anthony has much of a moral compass; there’s plenty of crimes Alastor could be pulling right now that Anthony wouldn’t lose any sleep over. But he’s a _demon_. Even Anthony would feel some guilt if the thing was out there eating innocent babies or something.

Alastor promised no murder though, so Anthony will just have to wait and see he supposes.

He throws his comforter off and climbs to his feet. He’d promised the demon a night of dancing so he might as well doll himself up and get ready.

It doesn’t occur to him until he’s got his stockings halfway up his legs that Alastor might not enjoy one of the queer clubs Angel frequents. Yeah he knows Anthony sleeps with men for money, but he’d been human once. It’s totally possible he’s a bigot of some kind.

But you know what? If he is then that’s his problem. Anthony promised him dancing, and if Alastor doesn’t enjoy where Anthony takes him, well he can learn to fuckin’ deal with it.

That decided, Anthony finishes pulling on his stockings and attaches them to his garter belt to keep them in place. Once finished he raids his closet for an actual outfit for the night. He decides on a slinky black dress, a fur lined coat, and sensible heels, laying them out on his bed while he goes to do his hair and makeup.

Alastor appears while Anthony is considering his fucked up eye in the mirror. Anthony turns, unashamed that he’s naked but for panties, garter, and stockings, and eyes the human face grinning at him. “Huh. Yer pretty handsome like that.”

And he is. His outfit is a little outlandish, but Anthony actually kind of likes it. The colors are a nice contrast against his dark skin, and his eyes, ostensibly brown but so dark they appear black with an unusual red gleam, practically glow from underneath the brim of his hat.

“Why thank you!” the demon exclaims, giving the lapel of his coat a pleased little tug. “And I dare say, that dress is going to be quite the look on you.”

Phew, okay, not a bigot then. That’s one weight off of Anthony’s shoulders. Unfortunately, it’s not the only one.

“Maybe, but I don’t think I really thought this eye thing through when I signed up with ya,” he admits, turning back to his mirror. Does he try to make an eyepatch of some kind? He might be able to comb his hair over it but to keep it there all night, especially while dancing, might be a challenge. Sure the clubs are often dim, but not so dim someone wouldn’t notice.

A presence just beside him makes him take a step away, until the mirror is reflecting both his and Alastor’s faces. The one beside Anthony might look human, but his reflection is just as demonic as he appeared this morning.

“I’m afraid I told you exactly what to expect when I marked you there,” the demon reminds him. “In fact, I believe I enticed you into it by specifically mentioning how nobody would be able to look at you and not know what you’ve done.”

Anthony feels himself flush because yeah he remembers that. At the time it had sounded perfect. He _wants_ everyone to know not to fuck with him. That he’s got forces on his side that they could never hope to compete with. He wants that protection and security.

And secretly, he also wants to be tainted that way. Stained. Have his body marked and desecrated in way that _he_ chose for once, instead of having it inflicted upon him. Out loud he just says, “I was out of it enough to summon a goddamn demon. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t in my right mind.”

Alastor meets his eyes in the mirror and shrugs, lips spread wide over that unnerving smile. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, pet. What’s done is done.”

Anthony pushes his lips, already painted a lurid red, into a pout. “You gonna be offended if I cover it up?”

“A little, but not enough to make a fuss over.”

“Cool. Next question, can yer weird shadow magic make me an eyepatch?” He swears he sees Alastor’s eye twitch and the demon heaves a sigh.

“I suppose I could make you something. As a favor,” he says, and Anthony grins at him.

“Thanks! Now move, I need ta finish my makeup if we’re gonna get anywhere.” Anthony hip checks the demon to get him out of the way, and Alastor goes easily enough with a static-y laugh.

“Why do you do that?” Anthony asks conversationally, picking up a purple eyeshadow before thinking better of it and putting it down. Tonight’s color seems to be red. “The whole…static and radio noises stuff.”

“Because I’m a radio demon, of course!” comes the cheerful response. Anthony can vaguely see the demon moving around the room behind him, but turns his attention back to applying his eyeshadow. He has an entire palette of red shades but he doesn’t use them much, typically preferring pink, purple, or blue.

“That don’t really answer my question, Smiles.”

Alastor laughs again, saying, “You’re quite the inquisitive little human! But I suppose I can play along. I was a radio announcer when I was alive. Now I run a station in Hell where I broadcast the sounds of my victims being tortured.”

That makes Anthony pause for a moment, then he rolls his eyes. What is it with powerful men and torturing others? It ain’t Anthony’s thing, that’s for sure. Why draw someone’s death out? Just have done with it. “Sounds swell.”

“It is!” Alastor assures him, and Anthony can hear him ruffling through something now.

Anthony falls quiet as he moves on to his mascara and eyeliner. Makeup is much faster when he only has to do one eye. Alastor appearing next to him again nearly makes him smear the eyeliner though and he grumbles, throwing the demon a dirty look. Alastor only smiles and inspects him for a moment. “I see red is tonight’s chosen color. You wouldn’t happen to be trying to match me, would you?”

“Of course I am,” Anthony grumbles, angling the mirror away from the demon and leaning in close so he can focus. “We’re goin’ out together ain’t we? And I don’t go out unless I’m lookin’ sharp.”

The demon responds with a hum and returns to whatever he was doing before. Anthony can’t tell based on the noises and frankly he doesn’t want to know anyways. When he’s done with his makeup, Anthony goes to step into the dress, shimmying the tight fabric over the swell of his hips. It’s sleeveless with a sweetheart neckline that he loves, even if he doesn’t have the breasts to really show it off.

Before he can try to fumble for the zipper on the back, Alastor beats him to the punch. He rests one gloved hand against the small of Anthony’s back, hot even through the slinky fabric, and the other he grips the zipper with.

“Allow me.”

“By all means,” Anthony replies, allowing the demon to zip him up. When he’s done, Anthony turns around only to find himself far too close to Alastor for comfort. The demon looks him over, lingering on his face, and if his smile is anything to go by he’s pleased by what he sees.

“Close your eyes.”

Anthony squints at him, positive his expression must show how incredulous he’s feeling, because it makes Alastor chuckle softly. “I promise I have nothing up my sleeves, Angel. I’m merely going to put your eyepatch on and make sure it fits properly,” the demon reassures.

And for whatever reason, Anthony believes him. He closes his eyes and waits with baited breath. The same hands from before gently touch his face, tilting it one way and then the other before a soft piece of fabric is placed over his left eye. Alastor fusses it it for a second before tying the string off to keep it in place. A few seconds pass where he must be looking over his work before he clicks his tongue. “There. Beautiful.”

Anthony blinks his eyes open again, his vision adjusting quickly to the lack of input on his left. The eyepatch feels silky and lightweight, but when he glances in the mirror he can’t help but gasp, one hand reaching up to touch it. The base is black, but the there’s a beautiful rose affixed to it, just as silky as the patch itself but lifelike in appearance. It even has little green leaves and a spray of white baby’s breath flowers to offset the vivid red. It almost looks to be growing from his eye socket itself.

“Oh. Wow,” he breathes, rubbing one soft green leaf between his fingers.

“Do you like it?” Alastor asks, his presence hovering just over Anthony’s shoulder.

“Like it!? Alastor, it’s beautiful!” Anthony can’t help laughing because damn if he doesn’t love it. “You really know how to treat a gal, you demon you.”

That doesn’t get him a response except for Alastor gently laying the coat Anthony chose over his shoulders.

“Come, it’s starting to get dark out.”

Anthony dutifully clasps the coat at his throat, then pulls on his kitten heels. He’s pulling on his elbow-length black gloves, a last minute addition, when Alastor stills and his smile fades. His head cocks to the side, like he’s listening to something Anthony can’t hear.

“Hm. That’s not good. Come here, darling, or I’m afraid our night will end before the fun even starts.”

Anthony frowns at him but steps close anyways. “Why? What’s goin’ on?”

“I believe your father has plans for you tonight. Something involving a mayor?” Alastor says, gently grasping Anthony by the elbow and pulling him closer until they’re nearly pressed together.

Anthony’s nose wrinkles at the mention of the mayor. “He tryna bribe Mayor Atwell again? I keep tellin’ him it ain’t gonna work, Atwell ain’t a poof like me.”

Alastor huffs a laugh, mouth opening to respond, but heavy feet in the hall outside cut him off. “Hold on now, darling,” is what he says instead, and it’s all the warning Anthony gets before Alastor takes a step backward, tugging Anthony with him.

And yeah, Anthony had seen him pulls this little trick earlier. Where he just melts into a shadow and disappear completely, only to reform out of a completely different shadow.

But seeing it and experiencing it are two _very_ distinct ballgames.

Anthony feels almost like he’s falling at first, and then maybe like he’s on a train, the world moving too fast around him to keep up with. He flails, stumbling on nothing, not even a floor underneath his feet, but strong arms hold him close and keep him what he’s assuming is upright.

A moment later Alastor pulls him through the other side and they step out into the alley next to the apartment building. Anthony immediately shoves the demon away and bends at the waist, trying desperately not to hurl. His stomach twists and turns uncomfortably like it can’t decide if it’s going to rebel or not.

“Oh my god,” Anthony moans, spitting out a mouthful of stomach acid that had crawled up the back of his throat. “I swear to god, Al, if I puke and ruin my makeup I’m gonna skin you alive.”

“I’d love to see you try!” the demon responds, but a moment later he places a comforting hand on Anthony’s curved spine. Slowly the nausea fades until Anthony is able to stand without feeling like he’s going to keel over. “There. Better?”

“Much,” Anthony admits, smoothing his dress down. “But do me a favor? Never fuckin’ do that to me again unless you gotta.”

“You got it, darling!”

Anthony huffs but allows the demon to lead him out of the alley and onto the street. The sun is behind the buildings, giving them all bright orange halos and casting the street into twilight except for where streetlamps cut through it.

They start down the sidewalk together, a little overdressed for the area but not standing out despite that. All the best clubs are in Harlem, but if they’re going to get there they gotta find a cab to take them. It’s still early yet, the sun only sinking low at winter’s bidding, but Anthony doesn’t trust the trains at this hour regardless.

“Thanks fer gettin’ me out of there, by the way,” Anthony says when they’re maybe a block away. “Night woulda been a lot different if I had to go work. He’s gonna be pissed that I’m not there ta do his biddin’ though.”

Alastor twirls his cane -when did he even get that?- from one hand to the other and back again. “Think nothing of it, my dear! I certainly wasn’t about to let my night on the town be ruined by some power drunk human.”

“Ha! Power drunk is right, the ol’ bastard. Thinks he can jus’ pawn me off whenever he wants cause I’m a fairy.”

“Sounds to me like he’s the one keeping you imprisoned, darling. Not this Ricky of yours,” Alastor points out lightly. The heels of his shoes on the concrete are louder even than Anthony’s, and have a double beat like he’s wearing tap shoes.

Anthony shifts the coat on his shoulders uncomfortably. “Mabye, but he’s my pa, ya know?”

“Is him being your father going to keep him from selling you to the next highest bidder the moment Ricky’s gone?” Alastor questions, making Anthony scowl at him.

“I don’t see how that’s any’ya business,” he snaps in reply, huddling deeper into his coat. “Yer here to help me kill Ricky. That’s it.”

Alastor hums lightly, glowing eyes wandering away from Anthony at last. “My contract actually says I’m supposed to _free_ you.”

“By killin’ Ricky,” Anthony insists with a huff.

Thankfully, Alastor lays off, but it’s only so he can flag down an oncoming cab. It’s an offensively bright yellow in the light of the setting sun, but that just makes it easier to spot. It pulls to a stop on the curb next to them, and Alastor very politely opens the back door for Anthony.

Anthony, still feeling a little out of shape over their conversation, doesn’t thank him. He’s about to slide inside when a thought occurs to him and he freezes.

“Fuck,” he mutters, then slightly louder so that just Alastor can hear him, “Al, I forgot my wallet.”

Alastor’s smile curves at the edges and a streetlamp catches that inhuman red sheen in his eyes. “Oh, Angel, you do so love to doubt me. Let’s just say you don’t have to worry about any expenses on tonight’s little trip.”

Anthony’s jaw drops, but he snaps it closed a moment later. Who is he to argue with that? Without another word he slides into the backseat, followed closely by the demon. The cab driver glances back at them with a disinterested smile, asking, “Where to, miss?”

Anthony clears his throat and pitches his voice up, making it soft and a little husky. “Harlem, please,” he says, fluttering his one good eye at the man. “The Cotton Club, Lenux Avenue.”

The driver flashes him a smile in return, and beside him Anthony can feel Alastor’s own unnatural grin. “Yes, ma’am.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come hang out w/ me on [tumblr](https://scribespirare.tumblr.com/)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is uuuuppp im back and super in love w/ this chapter and i rly hope yall like it too!

The Cotton Club is hopping when they make it there a little after eleven. Alastor’s never heard of it, of course, but Anthony assures him it’s the best place to go dancing in all of New York. There are people milling around outside the brick building, as well as all up and down the street, dressed to the nines; must be the district for dancing and playing after the sun sets.

They pause in the foyer for Angel to shimmy his coat off so it can be hung up. Alastor declines giving up his own, and they follow the sound of jazz deeper into the club. It’s dim inside and the stench of cigarette smoke and nicotine seems to hang like a fog in the air. Alastor can pick out the sounds of low conversation, clinking glasses, and heels on the polished wood floor over the big band playing on stage.

He hasn’t been out on the town like this since before he died, and Alastor can’t help but be a little excited. The music is good and he’s already noticed the number of queer couples in the crowd, unashamedly spending time with their partners in public. No wonder Anthony prefers this club over others.

“I’m gonna get a drink,” the human says. He had his arm tucked through Alastor’s but pulls away now, giving Alastor a distracted pat on the shoulder. “Ya want anythin’?”

Not that human alcohol will actually work on him, but who is Alastor to turn down such an offer? “I’ll have a whiskey sour, darling. Start a tab under my name, will you?”

Anthony’s smile is sharp and bright under the dim lighting. “Sure thing, daddy-o.” He gives Alastor another little pat and then wanders off into the crowd towards the bar.

Left to his own devices, Alastor drifts until he can find a small table for them along one wall. Already he can see the eyes Anthony is drawing from other patrons; some greedy and lecherous, others more tame but still appreciative. Some are just curious about the eyepatch.

His Angel does cut a fine figure in that dress of his though. He may not have the breasts to fill out the bodice but the fabric still clings to his slim form. And Alastor may not be inclined towards the physical but even he can appreciate Anthony all dolled up, lips full and shiny, and eyeshadow a smoky, daunting red.

He wonders briefly if his Angel is known by any of the other patrons, and if he’s ever been forced to sleep with them. Some of the glances are a little too knowing for comfort. Like they’ve seen what’s beneath the black fabric and wouldn’t mind getting a second glance. It sours Alastor’s mood a little, something akin to jealousy rising up the back of his throat.

He chalks it up to their bond and shoves the emotion aside impatiently. By the time Anthony returns with their drinks he’s mellow again, bobbing his head lightly to the music.

“Here.” A sweating glass is shoved across the table at him while Anthony sips at his own much more colorful drink. Like most things with him it’s a gaudy pink. Alastor is starting to sense a pattern.

“Thank you,” Alastor says, picking up his own glass to swirl the liquid inside. The scent of whisky and lemon hits his nose, sharp and familiar, and he hums happily as he takes his first drink. The alcohol in Hell never did taste quite right. “You’re drawing quite a few looks,” he comments idly, and raises an eyebrow when Anthony snorts inelegantly.

Rather than take a chair, the human is leaned with his elbows back against the table, putting his profile to Alastor so Anthony can look out at the crowd. This close Alastor can see the faint dusting of freckles over his shoulders and a smudge of makeup near his jaw. Without thinking he leans in to clean it off with a thumb, earning a look of surprise from the human. Alastor holds his thumb up, orange-ish in color from some kind of foundation, as explanation. Brown eyes flicker down to it, then back up to Alastor’s face before Anthony turns away again.

“I draw a lot of attention everywhere I go,” he says, picking up the conversation where it had fallen. “Can’t quite tell if it’s a curse or a blessin’ but I make it work.”

Alastor rubs his fingers together until the foundation has thinned enough not to be visible. “I’ll say. I’ve counted at least ten men who look ready to come ask you to dance, and another ten who’d like to skip dancing all together, if you catch my meaning.”

The look Anthony turns on him is slightly startled, but then he throws his head back with a laugh, smile sharp and genuine. “Better beat them to then punch then, o’demon mine. Care to dance?”

“I’d be delighted.”

They throw back the rest of their drinks as the current song winds to a close. The whiskey burns all the way down Alastor’s throat in a way he hasn’t felt in years, surprisingly exhilarating, and he slaps his glass back onto the table hard enough that it splinters up the side. Ah, well, somebody else’s problem. He’s already tugging his Angel out onto the dance floor seconds after the human finishes his own drink, making Anthony laugh again.

“Hey, slow down there, Al! One of us is in heels, and it ain’t you.”

“My apologies,” Alastor tells him, not meaning it in the slightest. “Do you know how to balboa, darling?”

The next song is starting, even more upbeat than the last, and Alastor pulls Anthony close, fitting their hands together. He wraps the other around Anthony’s waist to bring their bodies together as well, and Anthony stares up at him in surprise.

“Ya really know what yer doin’,” the human says, mouth pulling up into another one of those sharp smiles. “Yeah, I know how ta balboa. Try to keep up wit’ me.”

The balboa had been popular in Alastor’s day as well, and though he hadn’t gone dancing often, nor had he ever danced with anyone he’d been particularly fond of like he’s finding himself with his Angel, he still remembers the steps. It’s a fast paced dance with a lot of foot work; small, fast paced steps that don’t move you much across the dance floor until suddenly they do. Anthony’s hand settles against Alastor’s shoulder blade and their fingers tangle on the opposite hand.

Alastor takes the lead cheerfully, keeping them in time with a blaring trumpet and jumping bass, spinning them first in small circles before pushing Anthony out into a graceful twirl. Anthony laughs, clearly taken off guard by Alastor’s skill, but quickly switches to giving as good as he’s getting.

Unfortunately, his Angel’s dress is tight around his legs. Meaning Alastor has to be careful not to overstep or risk tripping the human. But that’s an easy enough problem to solve.

Alastor dips the human, grip sliding to the small of his back to support his weight. In the sea of other dancers around them, trivial and unnoticed, they are suddenly an island. The music continues to play, but his Angel is smiling up at him, breathless, slightly red in the face with exertion. Alastor smirks at him as he untangles their fingers, trails his hand down the human’s hip to his thigh and raised knee. The fabric under his hand obeys his command easily, splitting neatly in half all the way to the hem, and gaining length and volume. The edges are neat, not a stitch out of place, and Anthony’s eyes grow wide as the fabric flutters away from his body.

“Did you just-”

But Alastor pulls the human up and sets him into another spin before he can finish the words. This time his dress swirls out around him, showing off his garter belt and the laced tops of his stockings. He laughs with disbelief. When Alastor pulls him close again the human very pointedly steps on his toe, making them stumble briefly.

“You fucked up my dress!” he says, playful.

“ _Au contraire_ , I think I vastly improved it,” Alastor informs him primly.

Anthony childishly sticks his tongue out but allows himself to be led through the rest of the dance.They twist and turn effortlessly together, Anthony practically weightless in Alastor’s arms, matching each other movement for movement. By the time the song is winding to a close even Alastor is a little out of breath, and Anthony is grinning from ear to ear.

“Christ, I ain’t never had a dance partner half as good as you,” the human laughs when they finally come to a stop. On stage the band has paused to give its members a moment of reprieve, and the sounds of conversation and drinking fill the air.

Alastor can only grin in response. “Of course you haven’t, darling. Shall we-”

Someone clearing their through nearby catches both of their attentions, and they turn as one. A man has detached himself from the crowd and is staring very pointedly at Anthony; one of the ones who’d been undressing the human with his eyes earlier, Alastor recalls.

“Mind if I cut in?” the man asks, offering his hand to Anthony. He’s attractive by conventional standards Alastor supposes, tall and dark with bright blue eyes and broad shoulders. His suit looks sharp, probably dry cleaned, and his shoes are shinier than the wooden floor.

But Anthony seems the furthest thing from impressed. In fact he actually takes a step back, smile pulling down into a frown. “Sorry, but I got a partner fer tonight. Ain’t lookin’ to switch, pal.”

The man’s charming smile vanishes in an instant only to come back a few seconds later a little forced around the edges. “Ya sure? I promise I’m a good dancer.”

“I already said no.”

Alastor is prepared to step in, but the man just snarls a, “Suit yourself, toots. That thing on yer face is fuckin’ show anyways.”

Anthony watches him go with narrowed eyes before he turns to Alastor and offers him his hand with a pointed sniff. Alastor takes it gladly and sweeps them back onto the floor.

“Not to your tastes, I’m assuming?” he asks conversationally.

“I’m clearly here with you,” Anthony replies, still looking angry. His steps are a little tighter too, and he’s not as in sync with Alastor as he was before. “The nerve of some people, huh? Also, my eyepatch is _supposed_ to be showy, the prick.”

“Indeed,” Alastor agrees lightly. Then he sweeps his Angel off his feet and makes him forget all about the other suitor. By the time another song is drawing to a close, Anthony is smiling and giddy again, even his chest and shoulders flushed under the tan, freckled skin. He sways against Alastor as the demon leads them off the dance floor.

“I think I’mma bring you out wit’ me every time I go dancin’,” Anthony declares, then leans in to brush a quick kiss against Alastor’s cheek. “I’m gonna grab us some more drinks. Wait here for me?”

“Of course, darling.”

“’Kay! Be right back!”

The club is significantly more packed then when they had started dancing, and there are no available tables for Alastor to steal this time. So he loiters in the spaces between, one eye on the humans mingling and talking all around him, and the other on Anthony at the bar.

The two of them have certainly made an impression, he can tell that much. There are nearly as many looks for Alastor himself as there are for Anthony; appreciative, interested, and some a little hungry. Alastor’s stomach rumbles in response. Oh, if only they knew how he’d use them to sate his own hunger. They’d be running for the hills.

“Hey doll, thought I’d never get my chance with you.”

The voice pricks at Alastor’s ears and has him turning towards the bar with an almost audible crack of his neck. Sure enough, the man from earlier had draped an arm over Anthony’s shoulder and is leaning into his personal space. No human would be able to pick up the words he’s murmuring into Anthony’s ear, but then, Alastor _is_ so much more.

“Whaddya say you and I get out of here, huh? I know who you are. Know what you do. I’ll out pay that schmuck you’re with now.”

Anthony is as stiff as a board, clearly leaning away from the man with a look of disgust on his face. He very carefully shrugs the arm off his shoulders and takes a step away. “I already told you, I ain’t interested. Also, fuck you, my eyepatch is stylish as shit.”

Like so many men, this guy isn’t to be deterred. “Aw c’mon, don’t be cold, I didn’t mean nothing by it. How much is he paying ya? Bet I can double it. Triple, even.”

Anthony fixes the man with a cool, blank gaze, a faint curl of disgust to his lip. “Ya could pay me all the money in Harlem and he would still be worth more than you. Get tha _fuck_ off me.”

Ah, Alastor knew there was a reason why he liked Anthony. From where he’s standing, Alastor can’t see the intruding man’s expression, but his body language screams anger. Anthony doesn’t appear the least bit intimidated, taking his drinks with a point look at the man before turning on his heel in a clear dismissal.

“Well isn’t he persistent,” Alastor remarks with humor when his Angel approaches and passes him a glass.

“Ya heard that?” Anthony’s expression is still screwed up in distaste, which just won’t do.

“Demon, remember, darling? Come here.”

Anthony steps closer without hesitation, and Alastor loops an arm around his waist so that they’re pressed together along their sides. One of Anthony’s arms winds around Alastor’s waist in turn; he’s a warm, comfortable weight against the demon, surprisingly enjoyable.

“Don’t look now but he’s watching us,” Alastor says, regarding the man in question over the rim of his glass as he brings it up for a drink.

This close Anthony has to look down at Alastor a little, especially in his heels. His mouth curls up in amusement as he realizes what Alastor’s goal is. “Oh, tryin’ ta make him jealous are ya?”

Alastor hums, gaze finally tearing away from the man’s angry, mulish face and hunched shoulders. “And doing a marvelous job of it, I’d say. Lean down, Angel.”

Again Anthony responds without hesitation, sending a faint thrill up Alastor’s spine at the easy obedience. Alastor reaches up to cup the human’s face and guide him into a brief, harsh kiss. What can he say, even in a human skin he’s still got blood lust at his core.

Anthony pulls away from him with a hiss, tongue probing at the new, bloody split in his lip. The color blends beautifully with his lipstick. “Aw, fucker, was that necessary?”

“Of course.” The man isn’t looking at them anymore, instead staring furiously into the bottom of a glass. As Alastor watches the bar tender comes by and shoos him away to make room for other customers, which just seems to make the man’s mood sour further.

Anthony still seems put upon by his bloody lip, prodding at it and sucking it into his mouth to clean the blood off in turns. Alastor just smiles at him. “Finish your drink and I’ll take you for another turn around the dance floor.”

“Asshole,” the human hisses back, but brings his drink to his mouth. When he pulls it away there’s a smear of blood on the glass that Alastor can’t help but lick clean.

oOo

It’s the best dancing Anthony’s had in years. Not only does Alastor really know what he’s doing, he’s also a perfect gentleman as he leads Anthony all around the dance floor. Minus the lip biting incident of course, but Anthony’s willing to overlook it. Most of his partners in the past preferred getting handsy to actually dancing, much less dipping Anthony, twirling him, or even lifting him. Anthony had been speechless after the last one, unable to do anything but stare down at Alastor in wide eyed surprise and delight as the demon, holding Anthony by the hips, spun him in a circle.

Hours later and Anthony is both tipsy and starting to feel how late it is. He leans against Alastor’s arm as they leave, not complaining as the demon stops and fixes his coat around his shoulders.

“Thanks,” Anthony murmurs, and the demon offers him a sharp-toothed smile in response.

It’s going on two am when they stumble outside together. The winter air is bitterly cold and seems to shimmer where orange streetlamps and neon signs cut through the night. Anthony’s breath steams in front of his face. Alastor’s does not.

There are other party-goers leaving different clubs up and down the street, flagging cabs or heading a few blocks over to the 24/7 diners. But despite how much Angel would love to go home, there’s something else he wants more.

Even though Alastor has proven how strong he is and could easily resist, he follows when Anthony pulls him into the alley next to the club. The shadows there rise up to meet them and the stones of the club and the building next door seem to trap the frigidity in the air, amplifying it. Still, Alastor doesn’t complain when Anthony pushes him up against one of those stone walls.

“Angel?” he asks, one eyebrow raising in amused question. “You’re a little drunk for whatever plan’s forming in that pretty little head of yours.”

“’m not drunk,” Anthony denies, hands on Alastor’s shoulders then his chest, his waist. “Been thinkin’ about this since the first time you dipped me. I liked your hands on my body.”

Alastor stares at him completely nonplussed, no indication of any interest. It makes Anthony falter for a moment, eyes narrowing. “I dunno much about demons but do ya, ya know, got the parts?” He only narrowly restrains himself from grabbing the front of Alastor’s slacks to clarify what he means.

“This body is perfectly human,” Alastor replies, and you know what, that’s good enough for Anthony. Heedless of his stockings and dress, Anthony hits his knees right there in the alley, grabbing for Alastor’s belt. The demon watches him intently, those dark eyes almost glowing red in the dark of the night.

Excitement and alcohol buzz pleasantly through Anthony’s veins and he can already feel himself getting hard within the confines of his panties. He so rarely gets to do this for someone he actually _likes_. And yeah, sure, Alastor might be a demon. A being of darkness and violence. But so’s Anthony in his own way, and at least Alastor treats him with a modicum of respect.

Alastor reaches down with one hand and tangles it gently in Anthony’s hair while Anthony works the demon’s belt open. He’s just leaning in eagerly when he hears the sound of soles against concrete and a low, masculine curse.

It happens quickly after that. There’s a hand on Anthony’s shoulder, yanking him backwards and sending him sprawling. He catches a glimpse of the man who wouldn’t take no for an answer earlier, his face shadowed but twisted in drunken fury. There’s a gun in his hand and, despite his inebriation, it’s aimed steadily at Anthony’s face.

His finger twitches even as Anthony rolls away, trying to get his feet underneath him and pull the pocket knife from his coat in the same move.

There’s no need though. The sound of blood splattering against the concrete is horrifyingly loud in Anthony’s ears. By the time he’s found his feet, the man is dead and his body has hit the ground with a soft _thud_. Anthony stares down at it in silent disbelief, gaze skittering from the gun that’s fallen out of his hand to the steadily growing pool of blood. Mostly he’s trying not to stare at the wound on his throat. It’s savage, flesh and tendons ripped apart by brutal, uncaring teeth.

“Don’t turn around.” The voice is a guttural growl and Anthony feels it slither down his spine. “Walk to the end of the alley. Stay there,” it commands. “Do. Not. Turn. Around.”

Anthony’s breath is loud in his own ears but he does as he’s told, pacing away until he’s at the front of the alley. He lost his coat when he fell and he wraps his arms around himself, trying to keep warm. It takes him a moment to find his voice, but honestly he’s faced his own death and worse before, so one little scuffle isn’t going to scare him for long.

He clears his throat loudly and then casts his voice over his shoulder without actually turning around. “I really hope you ain’t doin’ what I think yer doin’ right now.”

The only response he gets is the distinct sound of a body being dragged over concrete. He wrinkles his nose when it’s followed by an even more distinct _crunch_ and the sound of chewing.

“Of course ya are, why do I even bother.” Anthony sighs and allows himself to slump against the club wall, trying to make how he’s waiting for the monster behind him seem natural. And to think he’d brought them here so he could suck Alastor’s dick. The demon looked ready to let him too, which is certainly worth exploring.

He’s shivering all over several minutes later when he gets fed up. The sounds of chewing have stopped but he can still feel the presence of something huge and dark lurking in the shadows. Neither that nor the memory of Alastor’s warning keep him from turning around.

“You almost done yet?” he calls, pacing deeper into the alley. It takes him a moment to pick out the beast within, so dark it blends into the shadows. The form is animal yet not, a strange jumble of predator and prey features; sharp fangs set in a rounded muzzle, glowing red eyes, branching antlers darker even than the winter night, seemingly absorbing light. The form has four legs with hooves and a tail, but the limbs are wrong, elongated with too many joints, claws where there shouldn’t be, and even as Anthony watches the jaw unhinges itself so the mouth, too many teeth, _Jesus_ that’s so many fucking teeth, stretches impossibly wide.

“I thought I told you not to turn around,” the thing says, deep and rumbling. It’s mouth doesn’t form the words thankfully. Anthony thinks he might faint if that monstrosity moved and constricted to form sounds.

“Yeah, well, you were takin’ too long,” Anthony says, trying to keep his voice light. There’s a faint tremor to it despite his efforts. “You almost done?”

Now that he’s looking, he can’t find a single trace of the man that had attacked him. There isn’t even any blood left on the concrete, which makes Anthony scrunch his nose up in disgust. “Did you _lick_ tha concrete clean?”

A black tongue lols out of that mouth, glistening and heavy and Anthony has the urge to back away. “Waste not, want not, darling.”

“Wow, that’s vile. Do _not_ kiss me again until you’ve washed yer mouth out,” Anthony says seriously, then stoops to pick up his coat. It’s a little dirty but no worse for the wear, unlike his stockings, which have a run up the side. He’s not sure if it’s from kneeling on the concrete or from being knocked over, but he’s going to chose to believe the later. That way he can blame it on the asshole with a gun.

The creature lets out a rumbling laugh. “Are you ready to retire, Angel?”

“Yeah,” Anthony replies, then takes a step forward. “But…wait. Don’t change back yet.”

That huge, twisted head shifts to the side and the bright red eyes, how did he not notice how many of them there are, watch him intently as he approaches. “What are you doing?”

“’m curious,” Anthony says, not even trying to keep the waver out of his voice this time. The closer he gets the more his body and mind try to rebel, try to send him running screaming away. But he pushes on until the creature is looming over him, the heat rolling off of it nearly stunning. It smells of dark, damp earth and decay, an environment he’s never seen but can picture easily; cypress trees and murky water, moss hanging low from branches, ripples in that dark water as something lurks just beneath the surface.

The creature lowers its head towards him and Anthony freezes, that scent nearly blowing him ver as the thing huffs hot air. The iron tang of blood is heavy on its breath. “You’re a brave little human.”

Anthony chokes on a laugh. “Brave or stupid,” he admits, then finally steels himself to reach up and touch the demonic thing. The face, so clearly dear in nature and yet completely not as well, is covered in fine black fur. It’s surprisingly soft to the touch as Anthony pets a spot between two of those glowing red eyes. They flutter closed yet there are at least three more wide open to continue watching him.

The moment stretches between them for so long that Anthony swears the sun rises and sets again. They stare at each other, Anthony putting both hands on that face and feeling fur finer than any cashmere. Who knew demons could be so damn soft? Even if that mouth is bigger than him before the jaw ever unhinges, and even if there are too many eyes, even if the creature’s form seems to shift and mutate in that time they spend standing there together. The creature, _Alastor,_ is still as soft as sin and Anthony’s fear slowly starts to fall away.

The moment is broken when Alastor finally pulls back from his touch. “Stupid is right,” he rumbles in that demonic baritone. He shifts his weight and there’s a rush of… _something._ Anthony isn’t sure how to explain it exactly, like heat and pressure and power but none of it physical. But once it’s gone Alastor is standing where the beast had been, almost completely human in appearance. He licks blood from his lips pointedly.

“Maybe,” Anthony admits a little breathlessly. “But hey, if I wasn’t stupid you wouldn’t be here with me right now, huh?”

Alastor tips his head, conceding the point. “I suppose I wouldn’t be. Only fools summon demons.”

“What about those who kiss them?”

Alastor pauses briefly in his approach, then resumes, holding out an arm for Anthony to latch onto. He does happily and they leave the empty alley behind in favor of the lit up street and its normal life. Stepping out to hear voices and see other human beings, living their lives as if nothing just occurred, as if they had no clue about the demonic thing that was lurking in their midst, is _still_ lurking among them, feels like a slap to the face. Anthony’s step falters and Alastor has to pull him along.

“I suppose humans who kiss demons would also be fools,” Alastor murmurs, pitching his voice low so as not to be overheard. “Just of a different variety.”

“Surely they must be _bigger_ fools,” Anthony presses, regaining his step. He raises an arm at a passing cab but it doesn’t slow for them. He’s tempted to press the demon further, to ask how stupid a human who _sleeps_ with a demon is. Who goes down on his knees and offers himself up like a supplication. Even further.

How stupid is the man who loves a demon?

If the glint in Alastor’s dark eyes is any indication, he knows exactly what Anthony is thinking. “I don’t know about that. Surely it depends on circumstance?”

That make Anthony grin, even as he’s finally able to wave a cab down. “Nah. Anyone who kisses a demon is an idiot, plain an’ simple.”

Alastor regards him with amusement. “I wouldn’t say that. In fact, I might go so far as to say there are some situations where kissing a demon is quite an intelligent move.” 

“Would you now?”

“I wouldn’t have said so otherwise,” Alastor replies laughingly as he opens the cab door. Anthony accepts the invitation, allowing the demon to guide him into the car and collapsing back into the leather seats with a sigh. He hadn’t realized how sore his feet were getting until now that he’s off them.

“Brooklyn, please,” he says, pitching his voice into something more feminine, and rattles off his home address. The cab driver nods and Alastor slides in beside him, shutting the cab door.

The interior of the car is warm and quiet and Anthony finds himself nodding off almost immediately. Alastor notices and wraps an arm around his shoulder, letting him nuzzle into the demon’s shoulder. It’s probably smudging his makeup and/or ruining Alastor’s suit, but neither of them says anything about it.

Anthony drifts for the entire car ride back, barley awake until he steps out into the frigid night air. It’s a shock to a system and wakes him up just long enough to stumble up the stairs to his apartment. They pause outside while Alastor listens for something, but he gives the clear and gets them inside even though Anthony forgot his keys.

Anthony is already stripping clothes even before he’s in the door, only barely holding onto each article long enough to dump them on his bedroom floor instead of the living room.

He collapses into bed naked with a satisfied sigh and hears an amused laugh from somewhere behind him. The last thing Anthony removes is the eye patch, which he sets on his bedside table. There’s a rustling sound just before his comforter falls around his shoulders; he grabs it up eagerly, possibly mumbling a thank you into the softness but just as likely making a nonsensical noise instead. He’s not awake long enough to hear if there’s ever a response, but he still glimpses bright red eyes watching him through the darkness of his bedroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a heads up next chapter is gonna get real so do me a favor and keep an eye on those warnings/tags cause they might change!
> 
> in other new, i'm running a creator discord with a bunch of other radiodust fans and if anyone wants in on that hmu up on [tumblr](https://scribespirare.tumblr.com/)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what up ive been working two jobs for the past month and im _tired_. no clue if any of this is actually coherent or not so uhhhhh yea
> 
> cw for even more child abuse and homophobia in this chapter

Like so many mornings, Anthony wakes to his world going to absolute shit.

There’s a hand in his hair, too tight, dragging him flailing out of his bed. He grabs at his comforter, his sheets, half-awake and unable to process exactly what’s happening until he’s sitting naked on his floor and staring up in surprise at his father.

Horace’s face is twisted in anger and disgust as he grabs at the blanket still on the bed and tosses it at Anthony. “Cover up you fuckin’ whore, Jesus Christ.”

Anthony snatches it up gratefully, pulling it in front of his body. But when he goes to stand, indignant and feeling slightly humiliated, his father backhands him.

“Stay down there where ya belong, ya fairy. And listen up real good ‘cause I ain’t gonna say this twice. You listenin’?”

Anthony’s stomach drops violently. His cheek smarts from where his father’s rings cut into sensitive flesh but he knows where this is going, and he knows better than to push his father. So he just nods meekly. He can feel a small drop of blood trickling down the curve of his face.

“Good. That shit you pulled last night? Disappearing when I’ve told you time and time again to keep yer ass in the house? That ain’t gonna fly no more. You pull that again and I’m gonna sell your ass off completely, ya hear me?”

“Yes sir,” Anthony says, then chokes when he sees Alastor step out of the shadows just behind Horace. His grin is huge and threatening and the pattern of teeth in his mouth is more predator than usual. Anthony’s stomach manages to drop further somehow.

His father must not notice his panic because he just continues to talk. “Good. Now get up and get dressed. I’m sendin’ ya on a little visit to Atwell today. Shoulda gone last night but yer ass just had to run off and party like yer useless fuckin’ sister.”

Anthony’s eyes snap back to his father. “But…Atwell ain’t bent,” he can’t help but say, repeating an argument they’ve already had several times. Mostly so he doesn’t snap about Molly; that’s an even worse sore subject between them. He’s not surprised when he’s back handed again anyways, and he bites down on a cry of pain as one ring catches on his wound and rips it open further.

When he straightens up Alastor is looming over Horace, teeth parting in preparation.

“No!” Anthony cries, jolting forward like he’d ever be able to physically stop the demon. “Don’t!”

Luckily Horace seems to think Anthony is talking to him, as his hand had been raised for another slap. His son’s panic puts a cruel, condescending smirk to his lips, even as he himself narrowly escapes death. Alastor has backed off, even as the third backhand snaps Anthony’s head to the side, the taste of blood sharp in his mouth. When he looks up again, Alastor’s eyes are glowing brightly and never leave Anthony’s face. Anthony glances between him and his own father, unsure about who to be more scared of in that moment. Alastor’s face is completely unreadable but at the very least he backed off at Anthony’s request. Horace, on the other hand, looks ready to do worse than just slap Anthony around.

“You’ll do as I say, boy. Don’t think I won’t take my belt to your hide like when you were a baby. Act like a fuckin’ child, get treated like one,” Horace snarls. “Now, what are ya gonna do when I leave this room?”

“Get dressed,” Anthony answers dutifully. “An’ go find Atwell.”

“Good. Don’t worry ‘bout how to find him though, got a lunch date all set up for you two. Now snap to it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Horace turns with another disgusted glance over Anthony, huddled on the ground and holding his comforter protectively over his body. “Put some effort into yer appearance for once while yer at it. I know yer a whore but that don’t mean you gotta advertise it.”

“Yes, sir,” Anthony repeats again, and watches with relief as his father finally leaves the room. He can’t help his wince when the door is slammed shut. He winces again when a hand closes over his wrist and tugs him to his feet. On instinct he fights it even if he knows it’s just Alastor, stumbling back until his legs hit the bed.

“Angel,” the demon chides gently, but Anthony isn’t having any of it.

“You were gonna kill ‘im!” he hisses, not wanting to raise his voice too loud and bring his father back.

“He hit you,” is Alastor’s simple explanation. Even though he’s still smiling, the edges are sharp and brittle.

“He’s my _father_ ,” Anthony returns. “That’s what fathers do.”

Alastor’s head cocks to the side in that completely animal way, and his eyes narrow. “ _Mon cheri_ , forgive me for overstepping, but I can tell you with confidence that fathers do not normally treat their children how he treats you.”

Like Anthony doesn’t already know that! But that doesn’t change the fact that his father is still…well, his father. He’s family. And you don’t turn your back on your family. Hell, that’s the only reason Horace hasn’t already kicked Anthony out on his ass for being queer!

“Yer right, you are over stepping.” Anthony’s voice is final and he turns away pointedly. He’s got someplace to be after all, can’t waste time. Tossing the comforter aside, he goes over to his dresser to try and find something to wear. Something sedate since Horace will probably be waiting to look him over before he leaves. Also, Atwell ain’t even bent, no matter what his father thinks, which means Anthony isn’t gonna be able to seduce him no matter what he wears.

But whatever.

He’s tucking in his button down to a pair of plain gray slacks when Alastor’s hands come down on his shoulders. “Turn around,” the demon orders.

Unlike last night, Anthony resists a little this time. Oh he still obeys in the end, just like he always does, but he’s slow about it and he glares at Alastor once they’re eye to eye. If the demon is put off by his attitude, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he brushes Anthony’s hair out of his face with a click of his tongue.

“You’re lucky your bed head was covering your eye.”

Realization jolts through Anthony and he hisses, reaching up to touch his fucked eye. God, that would have been really bad if his father had seen it.

“I made something a little more sedate for you to wear,” Alastor continues, and gently pushes Anthony’s hand out of the way so he can tie into place a new eyepatch. This one is plain white and looks medicinal. “Just tell him you got into a bit of trouble last night and have a black eye. I’m sure he’ll believe it.”

“I know how’ta lie, Al,” Anthony retorts, but holds still long enough for the eyepatch to be put into place. He’s in the process of turning away to finish getting dressed when a thought occurs to him and he turns back just as quickly. “Wait. What’re you gonna do while I’m out to lunch?”

“What I did while you were sleeping, darling,” is Alastor’s easy response, one gloved hand waving through the air as if to ease Anthony’s concern. “Watch over you. Though I suppose if you wanted some privacy, I could find my own entertainment.”

“Absolutely not,” Anthony snaps. “I’ve seen what you consider entertainment.”

“Why, I thought you enjoyed last night’s revelries! Unless, of course, you are referring to my midnight snack. In which case, that was not entertainment, merely me doing my job.” 

“Your job?”

“Keeping you safe, darling,” Alastor says gently, and Anthony turns away from him again with a huff. He didn’t summon a demon to keep him safe; he summoned one to get a job done. Fuck, maybe he shouldn’t have insisted on waiting to enact his plan. If Alastor keeps threatening to murder every single asshole who looks at Anthony wrong, they’re going to end up leaving a trail of bodies all across the city.

“Ya know, tha whole gentleman shtick was all well and good when we were out on the town, but it’s gettin’ old real fuckin’ fast,” Anthony hisses in response. He finishes getting dressed in tense silence after that, and is about to leave when the demon stops him again.

“What!?” he snarls, the morning weighing on him more and more.

“Hold still,” Alastor tells him firmly, and then leans in to lick the stinging cut on Anthony’s cheek. Anthony snarls and jerks away from him, but a sudden iron grip on the back of his neck keeps him in place long enough for Alastor to finish his task. Just like their first meeting, and when Alastor had kissed him at the club, his mouth is unbearably hot. His tongue feels like a brand sliding along Anthony’s skin, the faint brush of sharp teeth almost a threat when he knows exactly what they can do.

When Anthony finally breaks free his chest is heaving and his cheek is on fire. He reaches up to rub saliva off of it and is unsurprised to find the cut completely healed. “Asshole, my pa _knows_ he made me bleed. How am I gonna explain if he asks?”

Alastor folds his arms behind his back primly, face still giving nothing away. “I thought you said you knew how to lie.”

Anthony’s jaw drops open in offense. He’s fucking had it with the demon for today, and his father too for that matter. Maybe lunch with a complete stranger doesn’t sound like such a bad deal after all if it means he gets to get away from these two.

“Fuck you,” he hisses with vehemence. He’s all set to storm out the door but he turns on his heel at the last second, holding up a threatening finger at Alastor. “And find somewhere else ta be, got it? I’ve decided I don’t want yer sulphiric ass breathing’ down tha back a my neck today.”

Alastor’s calm, “Very well,” only infuriates Anthony more and he makes a high pitched noise not unlike Alastor’s own growl. “Fuck you!” he hisses again, and slams the door behind himself when he finally leaves.

His father is waiting for him in the living room, looking increasingly impatient. Hopefully he didn’t hear any of Anthony’s argument with Alastor, but even if he did Anthony’s completely willing to throw the demon under the bus at this point.

“Be faster next time,” his father grunts, standing from where he’d been sprawled on the couch and talking to Arturo. Anthony’s older brother barely even glances at him, but what else is new. “There’s a car waiting’ for ya downstairs.”

Anthony fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve, still boiling over with anger but slowly coming down from it. “’kay. What am I lookin’ for?”

“Jus’ a way to get him to slow down those raids over by tha docks. It’s killin’ business for us there and he’s already gotten his grubby little hands on one of my warehouses. I want it back.” 

Storing the information away for later, Anthony nods. He does more than sleep with his clients; most of the time they’re targets chosen by his father that they need some kind of dirt or upper hand on. Angel’s job is either to endear himself to them in such a way as to make them malleable, or find something that can be used as blackmail.

Except Ricky. That prick just has a fuck load of money and the desire to spend it all on Anthony’s ass, for some reason.

When his father waves him off with a dismissive hand and condescending, “Keep that eye a yours covered. Yer looks are all ya got goin’ for ya,” Anthony heads down to the street and gets into the car waiting for him there. No bodyguards like when Horace and Arturo go anywhere, though at the very least he knows the driver is armed. They don’t speak as they travel out of Brooklyn.

Nobody bothered to tell Anthony where he’s going exactly, but that’s par for the course honestly. Still, when they pull up outside a posh restaurant he wishes someone would have at least mentioned that he’d be going to uptown. He would have at least attempted to find a jacket instead of showing up in his shirt sleeves and suspenders, no hat, and an older pair of loafers.

Anthony gets out of the car without saying anything to the driver and straightens his cuffs again. When he walks inside the hostess glances him over coolly and then double takes when he informs her he’s part of Atwell’s party.

“Of course,” she says, smilingly brightly for the first time. “Right this way!”

The restaurant is dim despite it being a bright day outside, and the mayor has a table near the back of the room, close to the bar. Anthony eyes said bar and the guy behind it longingly. But if he gets drunk he knows it’ll get back to his father, so he focuses on the job he came here to do instead.

Even if he already knows its next to pointless. Atwell can’t be seduced, but maybe Anthony can loosen his tongue a little, get him to spill something he shouldn’t.

They’ve met a few times before, though nothing quite so formal as this. Atwell is a tall, thin man with sharp features and watery blue eyes. He’s always come off as intelligent and well-mannered despite the fact that he’s got both hands in the underbelly of New York and is pulling more strings besides. He stands when Anthony approaches and smiles genitally, holding out a hand to shake.

“Ah, Mr. Civella, just the man I wanted to see,” he says, his grip a touch too firm before he lets go and gestures at the seat across from himself. Anthony takes it cautiously, a little thrown by the greeting, and Atwell sits right after him. “We have much to discuss today, Anthony, so I took the liberty of ordering for you. I hope you’re partial to white wine and fish.”

Something akin to fear is starting to edge its way into Anthony. “Uh, yeah, that’s fine,” he murmurs, unable to look away from Atwell’s perfect smile.

“Good. Let’s get a little business out of the way before it arrives, shall we? I’m aware of what your father is trying to accomplish with this little liaison, but I must say your particular… _tactics,_ shall we call them, aren’t going to be effective on me. However, I have something of a counter offer for you. I think you’ll be _very_ interested to hear it,” Atwell says, and the threat in his voice is hard to mistake for anything else no matter how politely it’s delivered.

oOo

Despite his calm demeanour, Alastor is seriously considering killing his Angel off when the human storms out. Contract or no contract. Never mind that Alastor is willing to protect Anthony from anyone wishing him harm; apparently Alastor’s protection isn’t appreciated, much less wanted. Perhaps he should have let the gunman from the night before pull his trigger.

Really it’s the rudeness that rubs Alastor the wrong way most. The cursing, the insults, the rebuff of his touch when Anthony had accepted it so easily the night before.

Unfortunately for both of them, the contract keeps them physically bound. Alastor feels it like a tug deep within his gut, a tether pulling taut, threatening to rip him apart if he doesn’t heed the call. He sighs and slips into the shadows following Anthony at a distance across town.

And though he may be a demon, he keeps his promise. At least one of them should be a gentleman. He doesn’t trail Anthony into the restaurant, posting up in a small boutique across the way instead, lingering in the shadow cast by the sales counter. While he could materialize and perhaps find some lunch of his own, he doesn’t particularly feel like interacting with humans for the moment. Not even for the purpose of consuming one.

After a moment he finds himself actually looking at the clothing in the store.

It was clear when Anthony was dressing that he hadn’t been a fan of the sedate colors and plain fabric he’d donned. From what Alastor has seen, his wardrobe consists of more revealing items and bright colors; a peacock who loves his flashy feathers.

The boutique Alastor has found himself in is stocked with silk and satin. He glances at racks overflowing with bras of every size and marvels at how far the world has come in so far as modesty goes. The bras would probably not make a very good gift -though a little padding would definitely help fill out that gorgeous dress of Anthony’s from last night- but there are other gift options here. A present might sweeten the human and prevent Alastor from murdering him before the contract can be fulfilled. Honey catches more flies and all that.

A line of silk evening robes draws Alastor’s attention first and he shifts over to them, still keeping in the shadows of the store. While it was easy enough the night before to magic a little money into existence, it’s even easier to simply take what he wants instead of going through the farce of paying for it.

He decides on a sheer black robe, see-through with silver lace designs and long trailing sleeves. It’s elegant and beautiful and will look at home on his human’s willowy frame. Then he grabs a top with thin, dainty straps and a pair of shorts as well, both also adorned with silver lace, to complete the outfit.

Anthony’s lunch meeting with Atwell is over much faster than Alastor was expecting, and no sooner has he made his choice and spirited away the clothing then he feels the tug in his gut that says his human is on the move. He leaves the boutique in time to see Anthony striding down the street, away from the restaurant and towards a black car pulled up next to the curb; presumably the same one that had dropped him off. Atwell is nowhere in sight and even from a distance Alastor can tell his human is upset.

With a flick of his fingers Alastor is sitting in the backseat of the car, greeting Anthony with a warm smile when the human opens the door. Anthony falters for a second, his face going blank, before he rolls his eyes -the expression’s effect lessened considerably by the fact that one eye is covered- and crawls in. Neither of them mentions that morning’s altercation. In fact, Anthony doesn’t say anything at all until Alastor waves a hand, mostly for show, and comments idly, “The driver won’t remember anything about this particular trip. Feel free to speak your mind, darling.”

Almost immediately Anthony crumples in on himself. It’s so sudden that it takes Alastor aback for a second as he watches the human curl up, face in his hands. He’s not crying but his shoulders are tense and he makes a low groaning noise that fades off into a whine.

“Angel?”

Anthony takes a huge, deep breath and then sits up again, his body going loose as he slumps back into the seat. “Holy fuckin’ Christ.”

“Not present,” Alastor quips, and is pleased when it make the corner of his human’s mouth tic up, if only for a moment. “What happened?”

That gets another groan and a series of curses out of Anthony. “It’s Atwell,” he finally admits.

“I figured as much.”

Anthony shoots him a glare for interrupting and Alastor magnanimously gestures for him to continue. “He wants ta make a deal with me. Only, it ain’t no deal and I ain’t got no choice in the matter.”

Well that’s an easy enough problem to fix. “I’ll simply kill him then and we’ll have this little mess dealt with before dinner,” Alastor says decidedly.

But Anthony shakes his head. “You’ll just make a bigger mess a things if ya do. There’s no tellin’ what all he’s involved in, and I don’t wanna risk causin’ some kinda domino effect if we take him out. Ya can’t just kill someone with that much power. Ricky’s different, his group’s pretty small in the grand scheme a things. Atwell’s much better connected and got just as many friends as he does enemies. But…he threatened my family.”

Alastor’s knowledge of them is limited, but aside from the mother he would not find their deaths to be a particularly bad thing. Anthony, however, does not appear to agree. “What does he want you to do in return for their safety?”

The human snorts, though the sound isn’t one of amusement. “Somethin’ I’m already doin’, which is exactly why he asked me. See, Ricky apparently has a hand in the upcoming mayoral race. And Atwell wants me to cause a sex scandal so’s he’s discredited and has to drop outta the race.”

“Why not simply have Ricky killed?”

“Okay first, why is your solution to everything murder? Second, that’s exactly what I said!” Anthony exclaims, throwing his hands up in dismay. There’s limited room in the backseat of the car, moving slowly through traffic out of Manhattan, and Alastor has to lean out of the way to avoid being hit. “But no,” the human draws the word out and rolls his eyes. “Apparently people’re gettin’ suspicious of Atwell, so if one of his competitors turns up dead it’ll bring too much heat down on his head.”

“I despise politics,” Alastor sighs, mouth curling up when it earns him a short bark of laughter from his Angel.

“Yer tellin’ me! Fuck, he made it pretty clear my family ain’t the only ones in danger too. Though I can’t say I’m too worried about me with you around.”

Something warm and unfamiliar settles low in Alastor’s stomach and he can’t help reaching over to place a hand on Anthony’s thigh, squeezing it comfortingly. “I cannot promise your family’s safety, but you yourself have nothing to fear, _mon cheri_.”

“I know,” Anthony sighs. “But this is still a bitch ova situation, ya know? How’re we supposed ta kill Ricky now? We can’t complete the contract otherwise and I doubt ya wanna spend much longer up here than ya have to. But if I do Atwell will know it’s me _and_ you’ll be gone. What am I gonna do once ya leave? I’ll be a dead man walkin’.”

Again Alastor feels that warm trill in his stomach and he marvels briefly at the fickleness of demonic emotion. Only an hour ago he’d been ready to rip Anthony’s throat out and think noting more of it, except perhaps a brief fondness over the memory of their night spent dancing. Now he can’t help but feel protective and, strangely, possessive.

This human is _his_ to protect.

However, he holds his tongue. He could mention that their contract need not be filled by Ricky’s murder. Alastor had chosen his words to be as vague and interpretive as possible. ‘Freeing’ Anthony can mean anything from murdering the human to simply untangling him from a bit of cobweb he’d walked into.

But Alastor keeps that to himself, not yet ready to reveal it. After all, he’s curious to see the path Anthony will choose and, frankly, quite excited for whatever bloody outcome there will be. Why play his hand if there’s a promise of a blood bath on the horizon? If he must reside in the human world then at least let him gorge himself on flesh while he’s here.

Some time later the car pulls up outside Anthony’s apartment block and idles by the curb. Anthony spends a long moment simply gazing through his window before he finally sighs and swings the door open. Alastor follows him out of the vehicle and back out into the sunlight, features shifting easily from demonic to human as the light hits him.

Anthony blinks as he closes the car door, apparently having turned and caught the transformation. “That was fuckin’ freaky.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Alastor says, and takes his Angel’s hand to press a gentlemanly kiss to the back of it.

The car pulls away from the curb, leaving the pair standing together on the sidewalk. Other people move by them calling to each other, hanging laundry, harking wares, loitering, and just generally going about their days, not paying any attention to them.

“Ya ain’t mad that I yelled at you earlier?” Anthony asks suddenly, hand falling limply back to his side.

“Demons are mercurial at best, Angel,” Alastor responds, and gently turns the humans to face the apartment entrance. “Come along, I have something for you.”

Anthony throws him a strange look over his shoulder but goes easily enough, up flights and flights of stairs, Alastor at his heels. The demon’s thoughts are preoccupied with what Anthony might think of his gift and if it will be enough to distract him for the night from Atwell. So preoccupied, in fact, that he almost walks right into the apartment after Anthony without considering who might be inside. At the last possible second he ducks into the shadow of the door and just in time too.

Horace steps out of the kitchen with his arms crossed over his chest and a sneer on his face. Arturo is nowhere in sight and Alastor can’t sense him anywhere else in the apartment. “So?”

Anthony freezes in the doorway, like he’d also forgotten about his father. After a moment he slowly closes the door behind himself and steps almost timidly towards the man.

His father grunts and shifts his weight. “Well? Don’t keep me waiting, boy. Did you get anything or not?”

“No, sir.”

Horace’s eyes narrow. “Why not?” he barks, moving towards Anthony with the speed and bulk of a charging rhino. “Why tha fuck not?”

“He ain’t bent!” Anthony says, shoulders hunching up around his ears. “He wasn’t interested even a little, and I couldn’t get him ta drink or invite me over-”

He’s silenced by a sucker punch to the gut that causes him to double over suddenly. It’s no easier to watch than seeing him backhanded had been, and Alastor feels his rage shift underneath his skin. Ready to burst forward in a bloody spray of fangs and malice.

“Fuckin’ useless,” Horace says, voice now devoid of emotion as he steps away. Anthony stays doubled over in front of him, clutching his stomach and breathing in little starts and stops like his body is too stunned to remember how to do it properly. “Why do I even bother? You had so much promise when ya were little. Wanted to be just like yer old man, wanted to help run the family business. But now look at ya. A fuckin’ _fag_ and a whore, and you can’t even get those right.”

Anthony’s racing heart and hitched breath are loud in Alastor’s ears. The demon is so close to losing it and just killing Horace when he grabs Anthony by the shoulder, pushing him up out of his bend in order to sucker punch him again. This time it makes Anthony cough and choke on his air, a small whine escaping him. When Horace lets go of his shoulder, Anthony falls to his knees and stays there, not looking up at his father. Horace doesn’t say anything as he gathers his coat and leaves the apartment.

Alastor is by his Angel’s side before the door even finishes closing. “Whether you like it or not, I am going to kill that man the next time he lays a hand on you.” He’s trying for casual, nonchalant even, but his voice comes out with a faint growled edge to it. He clears his throat. “I can’t understand why you haven’t had me do it sooner.”

Anthony shudders but his shoulders relax when Anthony touches him, and he comes easily enough when guided to his feet. Two punches to such a sensitive place, especially with heavy rings, will hurt. But they’re not so serious as to keep Anthony down for long. Still, the human leans against Alastor while he gets his breathing under control. As soon as his chest is moving in an easy, measured movement, he finally pushes away.

“He’s dealt me worse,” Anthony says, his emotionless tone almost scarily similar to Horace’s.

“That’s not nearly the supportive argument you think it is,” Alastor informs him, and follows closely as Anthony sets off for his bedroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's my [tumblr](https://scribespirare.tumblr.com/) tho 17hr work days means its a little sparse rn. but my queue is still running and ur welcome to send me asks!


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